


Over the Trees

by EudociaCovert



Series: The Best Path [7]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Child Soldiers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jet is trying really hard, Longshot goes to great lengths so he doesn't have to talk to anyone, Smellerbee gives good advice, War Orphans, great lengths, the ups and downs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EudociaCovert/pseuds/EudociaCovert
Summary: The Freedom Fighters forge connections; again, and for the first time. Part 7 in 'The Best Path' series.





	Over the Trees

Smellerbee flops backwards, letting out a contented hum. “I’m full,” she says, wondrous.

Jet’s smile is easy to come and slow to go. The slightest breeze meanders through the forest, swaying branches, rolling leaves, and tickling over skin. They sit concealed from the sun. The light that reaches them is green and gentle. The air smells like fresh water and new life.

Longshot squats by the remnants of their meal, a spitted squirrel-rabbit picked nearly to the bone and red-orange berries in a cleverly made leaf basket. He sets down an armful of thin, subtle sticks and lays out a series of large leaves beside the fire’s grave, ready to wrap the remaining meat once its cooled. Jet moves to help, but when he shifts away forward Longshot’s eyes dart to him, wary, and his shoulders bunch up when they had finally, finally loosened. Jet leans back against the tree and stays where he is.

After he’s finished, Longshot gathers the sticks and moves to Smellerbee’s side. He plucks an arrow from the quiver across his back and crouches, placing it in her upturned hand. Small fingers close around it as the girl sits up. Face scrunched in concentration, she rolls the shaft between her fingers. “I see what you mean.” She frowns up at Longshot, who’s watching patiently. “You lost a couple in the desert too, we saw…” she stops speaking, mouth falling closed and throat swallowing. She hasn’t told them about what happened after the sandstorm, and no one is pressing. Telling the story would mean talking about Shi. “How many do you want?”

Longshot holds up four fingers. When Smellerbee nods he ruffles her hair affectionately and stands. He meets Jet’s eyes across the small clearing. They’re level and empty, tightly controlled. He cocks his chin towards the east. It’s Jet’s turn to scavenge, but he nods anyways and keeps his face even as Longshot, bow slung over his shoulder, slips into the trees and out of sight.

Smellerbee unsheathes her best whittling knife and picks up one of the boughs. She bends it to check its subtleness and holds it up to sight down its length, eyes sharp and steady. “This is how Longshot and I became friends,” she says.

The murk in Jet’s mind recedes at her voice. He sits straighter, interested. “He asked you to make him new arrow shafts?”

“Yeah. Well,” Smellerbee smirks, still intent on the wood in her hands. “I didn’t know he was asking back then. It was right after you… I hadn’t been a Freedom Fighter very long. Some kid, Digger, do you remember him?”

The name goes straight through Jet’s chest, like a Fire Nation spear went straight through Digger’s. “I remember him.”

“He made this little whistle. It never worked right but he kept bragging about it, so I whittled a better one to shut him up.” Guilt is a cloud across her face, there and gone. Careful hands press knife to wood. “A couple days later Longshot came around. He just handed me two arrows, one good and one broken, and a piece of wood like this one. Then he sat down and stared at me.” She smiles fondly, and Jet smiles too. “I thought he was scary.”

She draws the knife down, and bark falls away in an even spiral.

“Because he was quiet?” Jet prods. He wants her to keep talking. Listening feels like lathering healing paste on a fresh burn.

“A little.” She sights down the wood again, and reapplies the knife. “Mostly because he was so close to you. And you were… you were the leader.”

Jet looks away, tilting his head up until he can see sky peeking through holes in the canopy. His hands are in fists. He can’t relax them. To do so feels like letting go of something important. “I’m still the leader.”

Silence. The wind whispers, and nothing else. After a long moment the sound of knife and wood returns, slower than the last time.

“You are,” Smellerbee agrees. Jet lays his palms against his thighs. “But now I know you’re human too.”

Jet’s face wants to twist up in disgust, and he lets it. “Don’t make excuses for me.”

“Don’t tell me what I think,” Smellerbee fires back. Jet looks at her. She doesn’t look how he thinks someone should look during this conversation. She isn’t leaving.

“I’m glad I know now,” She says, fierce. “What happened…” She clenches her jaw, turning away. She pulls the knife down, quick and sharp.

“Say it,” Jet orders recklessly. His blood is pounding in his ears, his neck. “I can take it.” He deserves to take it.

She meets his eyes again. “What you did makes me feel sick, and scared, and used. But we’re going to Ba Sing Se, starting over. Together.” She lifts her chin and stares him down, a challenge. “You and Longshot, you’re alive and you’re here. That means that even,” she stops, swallows, keeps going. “Even after what you did, you’ve still let me down less than anyone else has.”

Smellerbee’s eyes let him go. She turns away, bowing her back over her task. Jet closes his eyes and tries to stop feeling. It’s a hard thing to do when sitting still, so he pushes himself to his feet and walks to the dead fire. The squirrel-rabbit is cool to the touch. Smellerbee doesn't look small and hurt, but she is. She’s been left by the dead, but she’s been left by the living too, and that’s the wound that stings now.

She has the right. Of all of them, it’s her who held Shi’s life in her hands, and had her life held in return. That kind of thing forges bonds quickly, and deeply. Jet’s ache is eased by his knowledge of Shi’s circumstances, and because he knows the swordsman left because they mean something to him, not because they don’t. Smellerbee doesn’t know that.

Jet doesn't want to tell Shi's story. It doesn't belong to him, and it would tear coming out.

“In a time long past, there was a boy,” Jet begins instead. “Who loved, above all other things, a hawk. The hawk was large and beautiful, sleek and fast.” He keeps his voice smooth and low, like the woman who first told him this story. He doesn’t remember her name or her face, but he remembers that she was kind to him. “And her feathers shone in the sun.”

Smellerbee sets the knife down. Her hand is shaking. She curls her legs into her chest, and tucks her face into her knees. She's listening.

“One day, as the boy was walking through the woods with the hawk upon his shoulder, he met a Spirit. The boy was frightened, as the Spirit was large and looming, black, with claws sharper than any living creature, and piercing wicked eyes. Terrified, he dropped to his knees and begged it to let him pass."

“The Spirit refused,” Smellerbee murmurs. Her hand is lying flat in the dirt beside the knife handle.

Jet hums in agreement. “The Spirit said ’this is my forest, and everything within it is mine. By stepping within its borders, you have given your life to me. And I am very hungry.’”

Smellerbee turns her head towards him, and Jet looks down. He pulls the meat free of the stick and lays it on a broad leaf. “The boy, though he was afraid, was clever. He said ‘oh great Spirit, I am powerless compared to you. Show me your greatness by allowing me to make a wager for my life, as it is the strong who can afford to gamble, and the weak who have no choice.’ The Spirit was intrigued, for he had not heard such an offer in a long time. ‘State your terms,’ he said.”

Jet hasn’t told a story in years. He can feel the power in it, how Smellerbee’s attention rests on him, heavy. “The boy said ‘I have had this hawk her entire life. I have groomed her feathers, and taught her to hunt. I have her trust, as no man has ever had the trust of a hawk, for I have never put her in a cage.”

“For,” Smellerbee says, and this is the part, this is what she needed Jet to get her to, “creatures that are caged become enemies, but creatures that are freed, loyal friends.”

It’s like a tight knot coming free. That hope, that promise, rest over them, cleaning the air it hangs in. He can see Smellerbee uncurl from the corner of his eye.

“The boy made this wager: He would set the hawk free, and then call it to return to him. The Spirit could use any means to keep the bird away. If the Hawk left for good, the Spirit would win, and eat the boy, but if the Hawk returned, the boy could pass unhindered."

They sit in silence for a while. Jet rolls one piece of meat tightly in leaves, then another.

“You really think he’ll come back?” Smellerbee asks.

Jet looks up, meets her eyes. “I think if Shi had stayed he would have always kept us at a distance. If he comes back now, he’s ours for good.”

“Shi?”

“It’s a name for Blue,” Jet explains, proud. “He took it. It’s his now.”

“Shi,” Smellerbee repeats, thoughtful. She picks up the wood, considers it, and then grabs her knife. “If you’re right, I guess they aren’t too bad either,” She mumbles, almost silent. “People that come back.”

\--

The sun owns the day when Longshot returns, enthroned atop the sky. The archer’s fashioned a makeshift bag out of his cloak, and filled it with nuts. Jet helps him pack them away beside the meat. They work in a parody of old times, mimicking comfort in each other's presence. It’s nearly a perfect ruse, but Smellerbee still watches them with a furrow between her eyes. Jet steps away when they’re done, and Longshot joins Smellerbee. She places the finished shafts in his hand, the four requested and two besides. He runs critical eyes and fingers over her work before nodding approvingly, slipping them into his quiver. She beams, and lets him pull her to her feet.

“How’s the leg?” Jet asks.

Smellerbee scowls, reflexive, but stops and checks, bending her knee back and forth a few times and testing how well she can hold her own weight. “Decent. Still sore, but there’s nothing wrong with the bone. I still need to rest it sometimes, but I’m healing. No infection. Time to move?”

Jet nods. “Time to move.” Longshot takes a step forward, but Jet stalls him with an outstretched hand, not touching. “You’ve taken point all day,” he says, words carefully free of demand. “If you want to stay with Smellerbee I can scout ahead.”

He stands still under Longshot’s scrutiny, quirks a small smile when Longshot steps back in acceptance. With a casual wave Jet steps to the front, and starts to walk. As he pushes into the trees he can hear Smellerbee’s voice as she talks to Longshot, a low and comforting murmur. He carries the shadow of the sound with him as he shifts through the forest, feet careful and mind clear. It isn’t quite the same as their forest; the trees are younger, thinner, and closer together. The bark is lighter. Still, he finds a patch of long grass as quickly as he can, breaking off a stem and biting down on it. It’s a trick he figured out as a kid; the bitter grassy tang keeps his mind from fooling him into tasting smoke that isn’t there.

The land begins to slope upward, a gradual tilt what slowly becomes steeper, rockier. Jet looks for a good tall climbing tree, and finds one after a few minutes. Stowing his blades at his sides, he leaps for a low branch, swinging once to build momentum, and then pulling with his sway, catching the branch under his elbow and twisting into the boughs.

He makes an exercise of it, testing how far he can go before he needs to unsheathe his hook blades and stab his way upward. Leaves sway around him. This high he is the only part of the world that isn’t quiet, huffing hot breath against the tree trunk, snapping small branches, thudding metal into wood. Then the light brightens and the air cools, and he’s looking at the canopy from above. As he predicted, the forest continues to climb before him until it hits a jagged cliff face, a sheer drop topped with more trees. The cliff shrinks to his left and grows on the right. Jet hums, noting where the forest no longer rises, and puts his mind to climbing downwards.

He's barely sunk below the other trees when a sound catches his attention, something too rhythmic, too human to fit with the subtle shifts of forest sound. It has him freezing, hands tight on his weapons, ears and eyes turned towards the ground.

Jet’s seen many soldiers like this, suspended overhead as they march below. Usually he’s glaring at black and red stepping sharp and bouncing again the ground. These soldiers are topped with circles of dark green, and their steps are heavy and sure. Jet’s eyebrows arch up, and he watches, fascinated, as the soldiers of his country march below him. They’re traveling from the direction he’d spotted, heading too far south to cross paths with Smellerbee and Longshot.

He’s old enough to join, Jet realizes with a jolt. He doesn’t know his exact age, but his voice has deepened, his shoulders broadened, and if he doesn’t take care of it for a few days a thin spattering of hair covers his chin. Age isn’t something he’s thought about as important in a long time; the Freedom Fighters judged him and each other by skill instead of age or stature, for the most part. He’s always fought for his country, but fighting under the Earth Kingdom's banner has never been anything but someone else's possibility. It doesn’t feel distant now. The idea of joining up and turning around, of fighting the Fire Nation again, formally, instead of fleeing towards safety like prey or even attacking small groups from the trees…

Smellerbee couldn’t fight with the army. She’s still too young, and while she’s good with a blade and quiet as the dead, the army would still value an adult bender of average skill over a thirteen-year-old girl with a grudge. There are rules to this sort of thing, Jet has gleaned from overheard conversations in marketplaces and the stories of his kids through the years. There are those that break and twist them, like the soldiers involved in the nasty situation he’d met Shi in, but technically the army only recruits children if they display astounding skill.

Which is why Longshot will never wear that uniform again.

He lets them pass without betraying his location, his resolve to stay stronger than his yearning to follow.

Jet isn’t the one who leaves.

\--

Smellerbee is standing unaided when he returns to their position, her weight mostly on her good leg. There is no pain held by her face or shoulders. Her eyes light up when she sees him coming, and it makes it easy to smile as he approaches.

Longshot holds out their water skin, and Jet jogs the last few steps, taking the container with a nod of thanks. He pulls the grass stem from his mouth and holds it between his fingers as he drinks. The water is cold and soothing, which is good. It washes the bitter out of his mouth, which is less good. Longshot watches him, all emotion locked behind the glass of his eyes. It hurts to see. Even in the Desert, despite everything, Longshot still trusted Jet enough to let him see that they weren’t alright, to let him figure out what was wrong. Without that trust Jet’s world feels off kilter. Longshot’s been his for as long as Jet cares to remember.

At least this time he knows how he screwed up. It’s worthless because it’s not enough to fix anything, but it’s something.

“Find anything?” Smellerbee asks. The red sunburn across her nose and cheeks is fading into a dark tan and cracking around the edges. She picks at it absently.

Jet lowers the water-skin and holds it out to Longshot. “Saw some Earth Kingdom troops,” he says. Longshot jerks, a tiny thing that arrests Jet’s attention and brings alarm to Smellerbee’s face. “We’ll hear them coming. They don’t seem to look up much, we’ll be fine if we take to the trees.”

"Wait, why are we avoiding them?” Smellerbee demands, gaze darting between her companions. “They’re on our side.”

There’s a piece of paper Longshot pulls out sometimes, for brief moments when he thinks he’s alone. Jet’s never tried to see what's on it. It would be mostly useless to him, and he’s pretty sure he already knows what it says. “Just a precaution.”

He turns away, but Smellerbee’s hand catches his arm before he can step forward. “No, that’s not good enough. This doesn’t make sense Jet, and I’m not moving until it does.” She plants her feet and glares.

Jet grits his teeth. He can't ask for her trust, and he knows it. He turns to Longshot. “Do you want to tell her, or should I?”

And finally, there’s something on that face, a shock, an old fear. It tightens in Jet’s chest. Longshot didn’t think he knew. “I remember how I found you,” Jet says. “I know what I taught you about a bow, and what I didn’t. And I know how our army operates.” He wants with everything in him to step forward, to put a hand on Longshot’s shoulder, but he can’t, not with what’s between them. “You still fought. That’s all that matters to me.”

Longshot’s expression leaves. Slowly he dips his head in acceptance. Longshot takes the skin. Their hands don’t touch. Jet places the grass stem back in his mouth and bites down, driving back the phantom taste of smoke before it can set in. Longshot turns away. It only takes a couple steps for the forest to swallow him whole.

Smellerbee is still clutching Jet’s arm. “Well?”

He sighs, deep and hard. “They’d take Longshot from us.”

Her fingers go slack, falling to her side. “What?” she asks, blankly.

“When a kid shows exceptional skill sometimes the army recruits them. When I found him…” No. That’s too raw, too personal. If she wants to know the whole story she’ll have to ask Longshot himself. “I taught his where to hit to kill animals quickly. I never had to teach him how to do that with people. He already knew. When we saw soldiers he’d hide if they were Earth, and fight if they were Fire. It took me years to work out what he was afraid of, and by then we were already fighting on our own.” Jet squares himself, standing directly in front of Smellerbee, who’s jaw is slack, eyes wide. “Longshot isn’t a coward, he was just too young. I’ve seen him fight for us, for the Earth Kingdom, and so have you, but as far as the army is concerned he’s a deserter.”

“They’d kill him,” Smellerbee breathes.

“He was a kid,” Jet grits out. “If a kid is going to fight in a war, it has to be something they choose. Otherwise you’re just killing their spirit. You're the monster.”

Smellerbee sits down on the forest floor, crutch across her knees. She stares unseeingly into the distance. “I wondered some, why he didn’t join. He’s really good.” She draws her knees up to her chest. “I just thought he was like Blue. Shi.”

Jet sits down beside her, slowly. “What do you mean, like Shi?”

She looks at him, away. “It’s not something the Freedom Fighters ever talked about."

The air in Jet’s lungs rests heavy. “I’m coming to realize,” he starts, uncomfortably bare, “That there might have been too many things like that. Too many secrets.”

Longshot hadn’t known that Jet knew the army had used him. Longshot didn’t know Jet was on his side, for years. For most of their childhoods.

“I thought Longshot might be a war-child.”

Jet turns sharply towards her. “A what?”

“You can’t possibly not know what a war-child is,” Smellerbee huffs.

“Of course I know what it is,” Jet snaps. “I just didn’t. Blue is?”

She shrugs. “He didn’t say, exactly. But. After we got taken he was really worried that someone would find out I was a girl. And when I asked, his face, it just-” she shakes her head. “People don’t look like that, if it isn’t true.”

Jet’s hands itch for something to do, to fight. “I’ve never met a war-child before.”

Smellerbee snorts, mouth turning up in amusement, but eyes grim. “Of course you have, it’s just not something anyone talks about with the leader of an Earth Kingdom resistance group. Most of the older kids joined because they were, because they wanted to fight and the Army won’t take you if you’re mixed.”

Jet never noticed. Even now, looking back, he can’t figure out who was and who wasn’t. Some had paler skin, lighter eyes, but that could just mean they came from an old merchant family, the fire blood several generations removed. He feels like he should have been able to tell, not by appearance, but by something deeper. There should have been something in their eyes, in their smile, some inherent cruelness. No matter how closely he looks, remembers, he can’t find it.

“I guess Earth blood is stronger than Fire poison,” he murmurs, alarm melting into a violent kind of contentment.

“Sure,” Smellerbee agrees, watching him curiously.

“Shi though,” Jet shakes his head. “Spirits.”

Smellerbee shifts. “Do you still want him, if he comes back?”

Sharp eyes, sure feet, quick violence, and heartbreaking kindness. Loyalty. “Yes,” Jet says immediately. “He still has a place, if he wants it.” Jet stands and offers Smellerbee a hand. She whistles bird song into the breeze, calling Longshot back.

“Since we’re sharing,” she starts, walking even at his side. “What’s going on between you and Longshot?”

He doesn’t want to say. He doesn’t want her to know about the monster he’s discovered inside himself, which is stupid because she’s been watching him like he has fangs since the fire took their forest. She already knows. “What happened at the dam hurt him. I started to fix it, but then I did the exact same thing at the hive.” It had hurt like hell, telling Longshot to pull that arrow and aim it at their hostage. Jet hadn’t framed it like a choice because it wasn’t. There was no choice. Pretending there was had seemed crueler than using the archer again. Maybe he should have anyways. “I still can’t think of a better option. I would have taken it, if I did.” He rubs his hands against his pants. “I know what I did wrong, and I’m sorry, but it’s not enough.”

“Have you tried apologizing?”

“Words don’t mean anything if I can’t fix it.”

"They don’t mean anything to _you_ ,” Smellerbee corrects, knocking her shoulder into his. “You care about action more than anything else. But Longshot isn’t you. And he isn’t dumb. If there wasn’t any other way, he knows. Words might be enough.”

Jet doesn’t know how to respond to that. Okay, then. Say something true. “You’re growing up.”

Smellerbee’s shoulders jerk up towards her ears and her face floods red, embarrassed and mulish. “Whatever,” she mutters, stomping past Jet and into the brush, movements erratic and flustered.

Jet grins at the sight, and follows.

\--

They make camp under a tree with swooping branches that brush the forest floor. It’s a small shelter. The ground is bare and concave; some animal uses this as a resting place, probably during the heat of the day. They pass around nuts and strips of squirrel rabbit meat. It doesn’t taste as good cold, but they’re wary of lighting a fire. They don’t want to be seen.

“With that many men, they have to be stopping for the night too, right?” Smellerbee asks, squinting into the growing grey.

“Most likely,” Jet assures her, taking a handful of nuts from Longshot with a nod of thanks. “this is just a precaution so all of us can sleep.” They set up camp before the sun left completely, stringing tripwires and noise traps low over the forest floor around the perimeter. If something comes across them during the night, they’ll know.

Smellerbee keels over onto her side, her head a few inches from Longshot’s leg, facing Jet. The archer, leaning against the tree’s trunk with his hat, shoes, and bow laid out beside him, pokes at her shoulder. She grumbles, but lifts herself up and scoots towards him enough to lay her head across his knees. Longshot crosses his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, body relaxing.

“Jet,” Smellerbee whispers. “Could you finish the story? About the boy and the hawk?”

Jet finishes the nuts and washes his mouth out with water before laying on his back. He spreads his legs open enough that the side of his foot barely brushes her toes.

“The Spirit, feeling generous, gifted the boy three tries. If the hawk returned every time, the boy would not be eaten and the Spirit would allow them to leave the forest alive, but if it did not, the Spirit would eat the boy. The hawk was them set to the wind. The bird spiral upwards, her magnificent wings spread and her feathers shining. When she was nothing but a speck in the sky, the boy whistled for her, and the hawk dove down towards him instantly. The Spirit changed itself into a beast, huge and vicious, and growled so hard that it’s voice shook the very ground. The bird trembled in the air, but she did not change course, flying past the beast’s swinging claws to land on the boy’s arm.

The boy set the bird lose again. This time the Spirit called up a raging storm. Wind and rain buffeted the hawk. Thunder deafened it. Lightning blinded it. Still, the hawk reached her masters arm, and landed, drenched and frightened.

“’Just once more’ the boy said, and then he threw her back to the sky. This time the Spirit, who was both clever and cruel, didn’t attack the bird. Instead, the Spirit struck the boy dead, which was not against the rules of the wager because the Spirit hadn’t eaten him. The hawk came back and found her master's body. ‘I have won!’ the Spirit rejoiced. ‘you cannot join him, so he is mine!’

"With a mournful song the bird flew back up into the sky, higher than she ever had before. But that was not the end, for once she went as high as she could the hawk tucked her wings in and fell. Refusing to save herself, she crashed into the earth, dying beside the boy.

“The Spirit was humbled by the act. ‘You have been loyal to the point of death,’ it said, ‘and because of this you have won our wager, for no one can deny that you are together in the Spirit World.’ So, because the rules of the bargain said that if the boy won him and his bird would leave the forest alive, and because promises with Spirits are strong and mysterious things, life returned to the boy and the hawk, and they left the forest together."

Jet turns his head. It’s too dark to see Smellerbee’s face, but he can see her shoulder rise and fall, even with sleep. The forest buzzes around them. The wind, cooler now, sweeps through Jet’s hair.

“Longshot?” he whispers. It’s too dark to tell if the archer is awake or not, but the black weight of the night feels like his gaze. “I’m sorry. For the desert. For everything.”

The words sit in the night, silent, unheard. Jet turn his back to his kids.

Eventually, he sleeps.

\--

“Jet!”

He wakes with a heart leap, hands finding weapons. Wisps of a strange dream about a strange man in white rush from his mind.

Smellerbee stands over him, face pale. “Longshot is gone.”

“What!?” Jet sits up. The forest is softly lit. Longshot isn’t here. “Do you know when he left?”

“No. I remember him leaving, but I just thought he needed to whiz, I didn’t wake up enough to-“ she clenches her fists. “The army. You don’t think he-”

Jet scrambles to his feet. “He couldn’t ,” he says, but it’s more of a plea than a statement, and it sounds that way. “He wouldn’t do that.”

No matter what is happening between them, Jet has always been sure that Longshot will stay. Jet’s always been his best option.

Until now. It settles in his stomach, a grinding sickness. Danger, possible death, and Longshot, the first, his friend, considered the possibilities and chose that over spending another day with Jet.

No.

“We’re going after him,” Jet commands. He swoops up their water-skin, the bag of food.

“What if they already have him?”

“Then we’ll fight until he’s free."

“The two of us?” Smellerbee gapes, but she’s checking her blades, tightening the binding around her bad leg. “Against the _Earth Army_?”

“Sure, why not.” Jet shoves out from under the tree, eyes hard and teeth clenched, and…

Longshot steps into view, unharmed, unhurried, moving towards them.

“ _BASTARD!_ " Smellerbee yelps, stomping past Jet. “You scared us!”

Longshot takes a hard slug to the arm with a bewildered frown, looks at Jet, at the sky, and then slowly drifting his eyes down to Jet’s shoulder, sheepish. He thought he’d be back sooner, before they woke. He pats Smellerbee and nods as she yells, and Jet just stands, head bowed, and breathes.

He’s still here. Jet hasn’t lost him because he couldn’t kill his pride long enough to apologize to Longshot’s face. He’s not dead, he’s not hurt. He’s not leaving.

Jet doesn’t look up when Longshot approaches. He watched as a bow calloused hand take his own, coaxing his fingers loose from the hilt they’re wrapped around, turning it until his palm rests open in front of him. Jet looks up. Everything’s there. Longshot’s eyes are intent, slightly sorry. The tilt of his head is fond. His stance is casual, trusting.

Longshot heard him, last night. He was awake.

It was enough.

Eyes still locked, he places something on Jet’s palm and steps back. He turns around and walks to Smellerbee, who immediately returns to scolding.

Jet looks down.

In his hand sits a golden hawk feather.


End file.
